Angels Fall
by graffy
Summary: You meet his embrace a few feet from the bench where you’d been sitting, and you breathe in his scent because God you missed him and the way his body feels pressed against yours.


**Title:** Angels Fall  
**Pairing: **Justin/Alex, WoWP  
**Rating: **R/NC-17  
**Summary:** jealous/possessive Justin, inspired by a prompt over at the omgjustinalex community at livejournal

* * *

Your whole life, Justin's played the part of the stereotypical protective big brother. Sure, you may grump and grouse and replace his hair gel with lube, but secretly? You've always loved it.

Even more secretly? Lately…it's kind of turned you on. For as free thinking and independent as you are…the thought of a guy caring about you, wanting you, loving you so much he just wants you for himself? It's hot. Who are you to deny that?

Oh yeah, you're Alex Russo. Justin's baby sister. His sometimes friend and always nuisance. You live and breathe to piss him off.

Which is why, perhaps, you provoke him the way you do.

It all began before your first date with Dean. You spent hours in your room, analyzing every outfit you tried on until you were convinced that everything you wore made you look like some kind of fat animal. Pig. Hippo. Cow. You name it, there's something strewn across your floor to match. After about twenty minutes of huffing and banging around, your door opens to reveal Justin's annoyed expression, a whine dying on his lips and his eyes widening as you squeal and throw your arms over your bra. "Justin!" you hiss, eyes narrowing. "Can you, like, leave? Dean's going to be here in ten minutes for our date, and-"

The shocked expression falls from his face almost immediately, replaced by a scowl so dark that your words fade without a conclusion. "Dean?" he says quietly, walking further into your room and shutting the door behind him. You take a step back and swallow the lump in your throat. "Moriarti? That Dean?" He crosses the floor until he's only a foot or two away and you're still all too aware that you're clad only in a bra. His eyes darken, almost imperceptibly. "I don't want you going out with Dean Moriarti."

You can feel anger wind its flush over your chest and neck, and you drop your arms without thinking. "Excuse me?"

You can almost swear his eyes flicker towards your exposed chest. But that can't be right, because he's Justin. He's your brother. He's still staring at you with those dark eyes, like he just wants to lock you away.

"I don't like him," he says finally, softly. "I've heard things about him, Alex. You should be careful."

You flush further, if that were even possible. You don't know what Justin's heard, exactly, but you can imagine. You protest out loud, claim you don't care, but really, it worries you. Why are you going out with a boy with such a bad reputation? You look into Justin's silently infuriated face.

Oh, yeah. That's why.

You smirk at him, the blush receding in anticipation of your retort. "I've heard those things too, Justin." Your eyebrow cocks. "Why do you think I agreed to go out with him?"

He sucks in a breath, and he gives you the blackest look you've ever seen. He doesn't say anything in response, though, and you don't know what to think of that. You turn, grabbing a random top off of your bed to throw over your bra, and leave your room. He's still standing there when you walk out the door, but he's gone when you come back.

The date was okay. No real fireworks, which disappoints and leaves a sad burning in your stomach because you really, really wanted to _want _to date Dean. That doesn't mean you won't, though. Justin's reaction seals the deal.

He's mad at you for weeks, fists clenching whenever he sees you and Dean, whenever you or anyone else mentions the name 'Dean,' or whenever someone says anything even remotely close to sounding like the name. So you continue to date him, because that smoldering look that Justin gets whenever Dean's brought into conversation…

Honestly?

It turns you on.

And then you're almost ashamed, because he's your brother, and you shouldn't be thinking like that.

Only almost.

* * *

You and Dean don't last. It's almost a relief when he moves, because you don't know how much longer you could deal with his clumsy thrusts and hot breath against your neck while you squeeze your eyes shut and pretend it's someone else.

You date here and there, each boy bringing that same dark glint to Justin's eyes. He feels the need to warn you against every boy, and all it does is inspire you to date even more. Eventually, he leaves for college (in state), and suddenly you're no longer interested in the boys in your high school. You're no longer bringing boys home every weekend, no longer begging for money from your parents to buy a newer, cuter outfit…no longer flaunting your blossoming love life in front of Justin, just so you can watch his muscles tense and his eyes narrow in on yours.

He comes home for Thanksgiving break your senior year, the same as he had the year before. He's filling out, losing his awkward adolescent body, the same one you've yet to shed. You're almost disturbed, but not really surprised, by the way your eyes trace along the lines of his body when you see him standing in the door frame of your room. He gives you a long look, before smiling and drawing you into a hug. You burrow closer, because that's what sisters who haven't seen their brothers in a while do, right? And you breathe in his scent and want to drown because you missed him, right?

Yeah, right.

You can't even fool yourself.

* * *

You make sure you have a date every time he comes home. This Thanksgiving is no different…except for one thing.

This is the first time Justin really _does_ something about it.

You're going through the usual phases of stressing over clothing, trying on item after item, and waiting for Justin to tower in your doorway. This time, however, he opens the door without preamble, and shuts it behind him. The look he gives you makes your knees shake, and you barely notice as the hem of the scrap of clothing you call a shirt flutters around your hips when you put it on.

His eyes rake over your form slowly, intentionally. "You're not wearing that," he says quietly, dangerously, stepping forward. "You're sending a bad message to guys with that outfit."

His tone thrills you a little, but you roll your eyes and grab your purse. You take a few wobbling steps forward (high heels and Justin-induced weak knees? Bad combo), and attempt to walk by him. "Whatever, Justin. Have you thought maybe I want them to get that message?"

You're almost at the door, hand outstretched, when his hand falls on your shoulder. You stumble a little, but stop in your tracks. After a few quiet seconds, you feel him get closer. His hand is large and warm on the bare skin of your shoulder, and his breath is hot as it pushes a few wisps of hair across your neck. You shiver.

He notices.

"Alex," he growls into your ear, lips brushing against you. "Don't you fucking dare."

Your heart stutters in your chest, hard, and right before you throw the door open and bolt, you swear you feel him lick the shell of your ear.

* * *

You visit Justin over your spring break, because you haven't seen him since Christmas, and you really miss him. It surprises you, because you didn't realize how much you really cared. You're excited though, nearly skipping to the bench where Justin said he'd meet you. You don't, obviously, because you're Alex Russo and you'd let Harper design your prom dress before you skipped anywhere. You love the girl to death, but the last thing you want is a dress with a asparagus motif.

You settle on the bench, and aren't sitting for long when you hear him call your name. You look up, glancing around, until you see him jogging towards you. Despite the arguments you two can't ever seem to stop, he's coming towards you with one of the happiest looking grins on his face, and a twinkle in his eye that you haven't seen in ages. It makes you smile.

You meet his embrace a few feet from the bench where you'd been sitting, and you breathe in his scent because _God _you missed him and the way his body feels pressed against yours. You know you shouldn't think those things, but it's difficult not to when he fits against you perfectly.

His lips press against your hair, and his grip tightens before his arms get looser, draping around you until his hands settle on your waist. The two of you are awfully close, but neither seem to mind.

One of his hands skims down your arm, circling your wrist and then taking your palm in his. "Come on," he says, hoisting your bag over his shoulder. "Let's go back to my room."

* * *

The two of you go to a party that night, and you wear something cute but not too slutty, because it's Justin who's taking you and there's really no one to make jealous if he's already yours.

Well, not yours. But there with you. And it can't hurt anybody to think of him as 'yours,' just for tonight.

Justin's gone to get the two of you another drink, when some big, sweaty frat boy stumbles up to you and palms your ass, leering. He drags you into his erection and his beer gut, spilling alcohol down your top in the process. You gasp, and he clearly takes that as encouragement because the next second, his mouth is slamming onto yours, then sliding down your neck with a trail of slobber. Your small hands are no match for his broad shoulders and his utter girth, no matter how hard you shove at him. You're struggling and squirming, disgusted with how much this oaf clearly is enjoying your dilemma, when suddenly, his immense weight is not longer pressing into you.

As a matter of fact, he's just hit the floor with a resounding thud.

An infuriated Justin, face splotched with anger, stands a few feet away. His fists are clenched and he's visibly shaking, fury showing in every single part of his body.

You don't say anything when he grabs you by the arm, surprisingly gentle, and takes you back to his room. You don't say anything when he slams the door behind the both of you, and starts pacing. You don't even do anything except for flinch when he slams his fist into the wall. Shaking off the pain in his hand, he turns and advances on you, backing you into the bed.

His hips press into yours, and you're suddenly so glad he's an RA and gets his own room, because if a room mate were to walk in right now, things would get awkward.

You have no intention of stopping.

His arms trap you, and he leans in closer, alcohol and soda mixed on his breath. Damp air puffs against your cheek, and your eyelids flutter. Your hips rock into his, just a little bit, and suddenly his hands are tight on your waist and he's pulling you against him even more.

You've spent too many years fighting this. It's too late to back out now. Not that you want to.

"Why," he growls against the skin of your neck (on the side that was not used as a chew toy by FratBoy), "can't you understand it?"

"What?" you whisper, head lolling backwards.

"That you're mine," he says, lifting his head to look into your eyes before slamming his mouth onto yours. The two of you kiss furiously, teeth and lips clashing and teasing, until the need for air is too much and he pulls away. "You're so fucking gorgeous," he murmurs, lips sliding down your neck. They stop at the juncture of your neck and shoulder and suckle, making you gasp. "You're so god damn beautiful, and I hate it that they can see it." His hips continue their motion against yours, and an embarrassing whine leaves your mouth.

"You're mine, Alex," he says, once he manages to tear his mouth away from your skin. You're sure he's left a hickey of epic proportions on your neck, but you can't bring yourself to care. That same old black look is back in his eyes, wilder than ever before, and it turns you on so much that the only way you can respond to his statement is by ripping off his button up, short sleeve shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere. Your hands are shaking as your fingers fumble with the zipper on his jeans.

He helps you in your quest for skin-on-skin contact, pulling your shirt off and over your head, then shoving your skirt down your waist to pool at your feet. The shirt you wore was sexier without a bra, so you stand before him in just your underwear as his jeans are kicked across the room, followed quickly by his boxers.

His fingers dip inside the silk of your underwear in no time, fingers probing and sliding against the wetness they find there. Your hands fly to his shoulders and you gasp, eyes wide open. One drifts down his torso, fingers skimming over one of his nipples and tracing the ridges of his abs, before circling his cock and slowly pumping. He groans against your neck as your thumb swipes over the head of his erection, smearing the pearly drop of pre-cum that sat there. You trail your way down to his testicles, cupping and rolling them in your hand, and that seems to be the last straw for Justin.

Your underwear is ripped from your body, and he hoists your legs to wrap around his waist. The tip of his penis brushes against your clit and your hips jerk forward, a moan dripping from your lips in the form of his name. His ragged breath forms a sound against your neck, and you have to ask him to repeat himself, because you definitely did not hear him the first time.

He says it again, louder. "Are you sure?"

You press a kiss against the sweaty skin of his face, breathing, "Justin…yes. Oh God, yes."

That's the only prompting he needs. He thrusts inside you, and the world falls apart behind your eyelids.

* * *

Later, the two of you lie intertwined on top of his light blue sheets. You're sore and there's a sticky sheen of sweat and semen on your body, and you're probably covered in love bites and finger marks, but you can't bring yourself to care. Justin's body is snug against yours, and for as wrong as this is, everything feels right in the world.

His lips press a kiss against one of the marks he left on your neck, and he murmurs one word. "Mine."

A smile curls your lips, and your fingers tangle in his.


End file.
